Gemotions

The envelope, crisp and white, lay on the kitchen table, a stark anomaly amidst the bills and junk mail. Amelia, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, picked it up, her fingers numb. She didn't recognize the handwriting. It was from her brother, Thomas. He died ten years ago.

Her legs buckled, and she sank into a chair. She ran her fingers along the paper, and the air seemed to drain from the room. She felt pinned, as if something heavy had suddenly settled on her shoulders. Slowly, she began to read.

The words, clumsy and remorseful, spilled across the page. Apologizing for the harsh words spoken during their final argument. She felt her throat tighten, and she couldn't swallow. She could still hear his voice in her head, the cruel things he'd said. She had to throw up.